The first couple was virtually carried from the scene, across the dance floor, past hundreds of partygoers with horrified expressions on their faces, beneath sharpshooters stationed on rooftops, and to the waiting bulletproof limo. Chaos reigned. Some guests, convinced that they would all be slaughtered, made for the exits. Others sought answers. The shooter, his arms wrenched behind his back, was transported away by four Secret Service agents. “You bastard!” a man yelled.

“Who is he?”

“He’s a terrorist,” others answered.

“How did he get a gun in here?”

Bill Frazier, the Opera’s chairman, grabbed the microphone and called for calm.

Mac and Annabel turned to the couple next to them, a U.S. senator and his wife. Mac had served on a committee chaired by the politician. The senator was ending a cell phone conversation.

“A terrorist attack?” Mac said.

“Right,” the senator replied. “They’ve gunned down Congressman Chapman. Christ, he was out walking his dog. The mayor of Denver survived an attack against him.”

Two security men whisked the senator and his wife away.

Frazier’s continuous call for order had some effect. The Brazilian band began to play again, and a couple took to the dance floor in a show of confidence.

“Please,” Frazier said, “let’s continue with the evening despite the dreadful attack that’s just happened. Everything will be fine.”

Mac wanted to leave, but Annabel said it wouldn’t look right if she left. He agreed, and they stayed to the scheduled end of the festivities. There was little dancing; most of the time was taken up with conversations about the event everyone had just witnessed.

Mac and Annabel returned to their apartment and watched the news on TV. The anchors and reporters stumbled through their reports, basing them on the sketchiest of facts. Some guests at the ball were interviewed, but offered nothing of substance: “What were you feeling at the time?” was the most frequently asked question, and elicited little. Chairman Frazier spoke of how shocking the attempt on the life of the president and first lady had been for everyone who was there to enjoy a festive evening celebrating the Washington National Opera. “Thank God,” he said, “that the assassin’s shot went astray and no one was injured.”

Homeland Security Chief Wilbur Murtaugh was rousted out of bed, briefed, and held a hastily convened press conference: “This was obviously an orchestrated terrorist attack on leading public officials,” he said. “Our hearts go out to Congressman Chapman’s family. He was a dedicated public servant, gunned down in the prime of his life. Fortunately, the President and Mrs. Montgomery were saved through the actions of the heroic men and women charged with protecting them. The gunman is in custody and being questioned as we speak. I can offer no further information about him at this time. The two men whose attempt on the life of Denver ’s mayor was thwarted by authorities are also in custody. Congressman Chapman’s killer remains at large. The threat meter has been elevated to Red-Two, and will remain at that level for the foreseeable future. Thank you. I’m not taking any questions at this time.”

The president’s press secretary’s statement from the White House said only that the president and first lady were fine, and expressed their heartfelt condolences to Congressman Chapman’s family.

Mac and Annabel sat quietly in front of the television and allowed the journalists’ words from its speakers to come and go. Finally, at two, they turned off the set and went to bed, as stunned and angry as the rest of America.

The phone in their apartment rang incessantly the following morning, the calls a combination of questions and theories about the thwarted assassination attempt on the president and first lady, and the one against the congressman that had succeeded, others rehashing the ball’s success. It had raised more money for the Washington National Opera than any previous Opera Ball. Bad news with good news, the bitter with the sweet.

At eleven, Mac and Annabel took their car from the underground garage-the parking spot had added $35,000 to the condo’s sale price-and drove to Great Falls, where they found Pawkins’ home. He was in front hauling bulging green leaf bags to the garage. An odd sight.

“Welcome,” he announced grandly. “Come on in. Onion soup, a salad, and the best French bread in D.C. is on the menu.”

They entered the house. “Get over last night?” he asked.

“It’s not something you get over,” Annabel said, “at least not this soon.”

“We live in perilous times,” Pawkins said. “Might as well get used to it. Nothing new on the news. Just confusion. Come, take a tour of the old homestead.”

They ended in his elaborate study, where the strains of an opera-Death in Venice by Benjamin Britten, he explained-poured out of speakers. “Britten wrote it for his lover of many years, Peter Pears. That’s Pears singing the title role.”

They gravitated to the kitchen, where Pawkins had set a long table of antique French pine. A vase of freshly cut flowers dominated the middle.

“A drink to celebrate?” he asked. “Bloody Marys are mixed and ready to go.”

“I don’t think a celebration is in order, Ray,” Mac said.

“I disagree, Mac. Tosca is a smashing success. Last night’s Opera Ball raised a ton of money and is still D.C.’s social highlight. We lost a congressman, but the president emerges unscathed. And I am about to embark on a new phase of life.”

Pawkins poured drinks whether they wanted them or not, and joined them at the table. He raised his glass in a toast. “To all things good, Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” One of the cats jumped up on the table, and Pawkins shooed him down. “All right,” he said, smacking his hands together as though cueing someone, in this case himself. “One, I did not murder Aaron Musinski.”

“We know that,” Mac said.

“Oh? How?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I knew it was Grimes from the beginning. So, my friends, your assumption that I did in the crotchety old bastard was wrong, terribly wrong. Frankly, I’m hurt that you would even think me capable of such a thing.”

“It wasn’t an unreasonable possibility,” Mac said, “considering what Josephson told us. Now we know differently.”

“I would certainly hope you do, and an apology is in order.”

Annabel ignored his call for them to apologize. “What about the Mozart-Haydn scores? Did you take them? Josephson claims you did. He had an impressive array of evidence to back up his accusation.”

“Of course I took them. Everything he told you about that is true.”

His easy admission of guilt silenced Mac and Annabel.

“You look shocked,” Pawkins said. “I can’t imagine why, a pair of worldly people like you. I spent twenty years with MPD, watching my fellow officers steal whenever it was convenient. They’d do a drug bust where a hundred packets of crack were found. How many were reported? Eighty? Ninety? The rest were sold to the same drug dealers who were busted and who walked, thanks to our screwed-up legal system.”

“Are you justifying what you did because of what others have done?” Annabel asked.

“You bet I am,” Pawkins said without hesitation. “I never did any of that. Steal drugs to put a few bucks in my pocket? Disgusting. I was a straight arrow, a complicit one maybe, looking the other way when my colleagues crossed the line. And do you know what? I never really blamed them. Cops don’t make a lot of money for putting their lives on the line every day to keep fat cats like you and the rest of official Washington safe from the bad guys. How much did you rake in, Mac, when you were defending the scum of the earth?”

“That misses the point,” Mac said. “And don’t broad brush your fellow cops, Ray. Most of them are honest, and you know it.”